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just-horrible-things · 1 year ago

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‘Verse: Resistance AU: Chewtoy Timeline: Canada

Safe // Unsafe [Next]

The slightest thing makes her flinch. The sound of a mug being put down slightly carelessly. The sound of the door. Connor walking into the room. Connor getting annoyed on the phone. Connor moving too suddenly, or getting too close.

It’s like the escape never happened, and she’s still waiting for her alarm to wake her. Or for Riven to walk in the front door with cuffs for her swinging cheerily from his fingers.

It doesn’t seem to matter how many people tell her she’s safe, or how much power they have to protect her – because they do. There’s no reason, not really, to doubt. She got out of the country. Connor got her out. She has the protection of a foreign government here.

That’s the win condition, isn’t it?

It doesn’t seem to matter how long she spends reading up on all the protections asylum seekers get here, or all the ways Canada refuses to cooperate with the United States. It doesn’t matter how good the new locks are that Connor had fitted on all the doors and windows.

It’s like she doesn’t remember how to be safe.

She’s scared she never will.

And Connor – Connor seems to take it as a personal insult, like she’s doing it on purpose just to get on his nerves.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he says. And, “How can you still think I’m going to hurt you? Haven’t I proved that I’m not going to do that?” Haven’t I sacrificed enough? He doesn’t say that, but she hears it anyway. I ruined my life for you, don’t I deserve a little gratitude?

“I’m sorry,” she says, because just like she can’t stop herself from flinching, she can’t stop the apologies from slipping out before she even realises they’re on her lips.

And Connor knows it’s just another kind of flinch, and the disappointment in his eyes is crushing every time, and she is sorry for making him feel that way but she’s said the words too many times and they don’t mean anything anymore.

“How do I make you feel safe?” he asks, sometimes almost pleading. And she has no answer for him because he’s right, she should already feel safe, he’s done more than enough.

She is grateful, she’s so grateful. She can’t even wrap her head around what he’s done for her, it’s overwhelming.

She wonders if he regrets it yet.

Whatever he was imagining, this doesn’t seem to be it.

Probably he thought he’d get his friend back.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that that person – that naïve, reckless, thoughtless, trusting, bright-eyed young idiot – is never coming back.

She doesn’t know how to come to terms with it herself.

She could swear she was better than this, even a couple of months ago still under Riven’s heel. She was stronger than this. She got her work done, even though it was far too much. She got up in the morning, every morning, without fail, and she put up with the pain and the exhaustion, and yes, she flinched easily but even that she doesn’t think was as bad as it is now.

Shouldn’t it be better? Not worse. She’s safe. She’s in less pain than she’s been in god knows how long. She can sleep as much as she likes. Things should be easier – but instead she’s falling apart. She can’t seem to do the simplest things right, like she doesn’t even remember how to take care of herself.

It’s terrifying.

Maybe those last few awful weeks broke something inside her, something that had somehow held just barely through the years of abuse but finally gave way right at the end. Maybe rescue came just a little too late.

Or maybe Riven was right. Maybe she needs to be controlled, maybe that always has been her problem. Maybe she only functions if someone forces her.

Maybe it would be easier if Connor stopped pitying her. She doesn’t know what to do with pity. If he just told her to pull herself the fuck together and start pulling her own weight, maybe she could do it.

God knows she isn’t any use as she is now.

Connor’s doing everything, spending all the hours on the phone with lawyers and banks and officials and who knows what else. Connor books her medical check-ups, Connor brings home the food, Connor’s found a job to support her and she just lies around at home too afraid to leave her room in a completely safe, locked house with no one else inside it.

She’s not surprised he’s getting sick of her already. She doesn’t blame him.

The thoughts spiral around and around and around and she lies in bed staring at the ceiling until the guilt finally grows large enough to eclipse the – the whatever-it-is that seems to glue her in place. And then she gets up and vacuums, or cleans the bathroom, or whatever.

One thing she can do is keep the place clean. She can manage that much.

And – sometimes when she’s washing dishes or folding laundry – sometimes it doesn’t feel so bad.

These are simple, normal tasks. She’s barely done most of them in years – scrubbing blood out of concrete isn’t quite the same – but her hands still remember what to do.

Sometimes there’s a quiet satisfaction in it. Making the space neat and clean and pleasant. For Connor, but also for herself.

But then other times it just doesn’t hit right, and then she gets angry at herself for failing to find that hoped-for peace, and angry at herself for resenting doing something as small as housework when Connor’s doing everything for her, and she ends up bitterly scrubbing plates far too hard until the rough side of the sponge rubs her knuckles raw.

Sometimes she breaks one, just because she can. Just because she’s angry and it feels good to break something for no other reason than she wants to.

If Connor notices the pieces in the trash, she’ll tell him it was an accident. He’ll believe her. Her hands shake pretty badly sometimes and it makes her clumsy.

The catharsis lasts only until Connor gets home already radiating irritation, and the tension instantly has Ari on edge. Something about the bank being unhelpful – which logically has nothing to do with Ari, but suddenly anything she does could piss him off. Suddenly she is acutely aware of how much patience it must take to live with her, and deeply reluctant to draw any attention to herself until he’s in a better mood.

She remembers the shards of broken plate in the trash with guilt and dread. Suddenly she’s not so sure he’ll believe it was an accident.

Connor goes straight to his room to change his clothes, and – like a guilty child trying to hide the evidence of her crimes – Ariadne goes to the kitchen to get rid of the trash before he has a chance to notice.

It’s stupid. She knows even as she’s tying off the top of the bag that it’s stupid. Why would Connor be looking that closely at the trash? Why is she fucking scared? It’s one plate, what does she think he’s going to do?

Even if he hit her – which he won’t, she’s pretty sure – all it would do is maybe knock some sense into her.

The shards of plate clink – distinctively ceramic – as she lifts the bag. She winces. She looks over her shoulder. Connor’s not even there. She’ll just – get it outside. It needs taking out anyway. There’s nothing strange about what she’s doing.

Her palms are sweating like she’s trying to sneak past Riven with a beating at stake. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. She’s safe. She’s not sure if she’s more worried over the plate, or about getting caught acting so furtive for no damn reason.

She’s reaching for the front door when Connor’s door reopens.

She’s not sure what happens in her brain. Something short-circuits. A flash of panic – just momentary but searingly intense – and she doesn’t feel her knees hit the floor but she feels the familiar sharp ache that follows.

And Connor is staring at her.

“Jesus Christ Ariadne,” he says. “Get up.”

The flood of shame drives all other feelings right out of her head. Her face burns. She can feel the blood pulsing in her skin, like it’s trying to force its way out through her pores with every beat of her pounding heart.

She’s not sure she’s ever gotten up off the floor faster, but it’s not fast enough. She can’t take it back, and Connor’s looking at her like he isn’t sure if he’s upset or disgusted, and Ari wants to curl up and die.

“I am not Riven.” The sharpness in his voice puts her hackles up, adds anger to the sick muddle of fear and self-disgust and humiliation. “I’m sorry,” she says and it comes out bitter and sharp-edged – the kind of tone that would get her slapped if he was Riven. “What am I doing,” he demands, “to seem like him?”

She has no answer because there is no answer.

She can’t do this, she can’t be in the room with him, she’s going to scream at him or cry or wind up back on her knees.

She grabs her trash bag by the tied top – not caring at all any more about the clink of the ceramics. She wrenches the front door open, practically throws herself through, and slams it harder than she has to behind herself.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he follows her.

But he doesn’t follow her.

She takes the trash out to the curb, and drops it into the can without ceremony. She doesn’t kick it only because she doesn’t want to look like a crazy person in the street.

What now?

She can’t face Connor yet. She doesn’t know how to talk to him. She just… she just needs to breathe. She’ll just find somewhere to sit down, and breathe.

She doesn’t know how to do this.

She doesn’t even know what “this” is. Everything. Nothing.

Shhh, she tells herself. Just breathe. Just – one step at a time. Just gotta – ride it out until she can figure out what she’s gonna do when she goes back inside.

It shouldn’t be hard.

It is.

[Next]

#my writing #verse: resistance #au: chewtoy #chewtoy!ariadne #connor thompson #neither of these people know the first thing about trauma #they are struggling

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